


Such Great Heights

by goodomensblog (just_quintessentially_me), just_quintessentially_me



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: According to Crowley Aziraphale IS art, Art appreciation, Ficlet, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Oblivious, Romance, and he's ABSOLUTELY RIGHT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 06:38:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19371403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_quintessentially_me/pseuds/goodomensblog, https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_quintessentially_me/pseuds/just_quintessentially_me
Summary: Aziraphale, feeling distinctly like they both might be falling in a wondrous, thrilling fashion, whispered against his lips, “I want you. Until time slows and stops. And then throughout whatever comes after.”“There is no after time, angel.”“If there is-”“You’ll have me.”“And when the lights go out in the universe?”“You’ll still have me.”“Well what about space,” Aziraphale said, smiling at this new game, “when the universe shrinks-”Crowley silenced him with a kiss, then swore softly against his lips. “Always, angel. It took me six thousand bloody years to get to this point. I’m not going anywhere.”





	Such Great Heights

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by an ask on tumblr: “ Imagine Crowley having found a book that contained Gustave Dore’s artwork and he was looking at the depictions of angels and he casually says to Azirphale, none of them are as beautiful as you ~~~”

On a Tuesday in October, Aziraphale found himself in rare possession of a most  _quintessentially_ perfect afternoon.

Outside, trees, swathed in resplendent oranges and reds, shivered in delight at the autumnal breeze tickling their leaves. On his desk, steam rose from a freshly brewed cup of tea. And a new book waited, open and ready for his most ardent perusal.

 _Peaceful._ Aziraphale reflected, lifting the steaming cup to his lips. It was peaceful.

 _Quiet too_.

Aziraphale froze, cool ceramic pressing against his lips.

Entirely  _too_  quiet.

If Aziraphale were alone, the silence would have been acceptable - welcomed even. But the problem was this: he was  _not_  alone.

A few hours ago, Crowley had breezed in, colorful leaves swirling around him, moaning about  _boredom_. He’d then proceeded to prowl around the shop, getting underfoot as Aziraphale read -  _er, worked_  - and being the general sort of nuisance that only a demon suffering from excessive boredom can be.

The last time Aziraphale had heard from him was half an hour ago.

As Aziraphale sorted some of his newer books, he’d heard Crowley somewhere near the back of the shop, doing what sounded like a frightful amount of  _rummaging_. Aziraphale had resolved to put a stop to it - only to re-discover a book he’d been meaning to read, tucked, forgotten beneath a pile of texts.

Readying the book, Aziraphale had promptly hurried to brew a cup of tea.

Now, a few pages in, silence hung over the bookshop like a curse.

A loud, bored demon might a nuisance, but a silent, bored demon was  _dangerous_.

Aziraphale frowned, sitting up. Setting the cup aside, he turned a wary glance over the shop.

“Crowley?” he called

No response.

_Not good._

Aziraphale rose, swiftly marking his page. Straightening his vest with a determined tug, he marched toward the rear of the store - the last known location of Crowley’s mischief.

“Crowley?” he called again. “What have you gotten up to?”

Again, no response.

Sighing, Aziraphale circled the rear bookshelves, turning wary glances around each corner as he went.

It was between the Modern Art and the Art History shelves that he found him.

Crowley sat, gangly legs awkwardly crossed beneath him and an open book in his lap. He was surrounded by texts stacked haphazardly about, but this one had clearly caught and held his attention. His glasses were hooked in the collar of his shirt and he peered down, yellow gaze tracing the page.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale tried again. This time, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

Crowley startled, knee knocking a precarious pile of books over as his head jerked up.

Aziraphale jumped as well, surprised at Crowley’s surprise. Crowley so rarely let others sneak up upon him. Aziraphale rather thought Crowley enjoyed being the one doing the sneaking.

“Oh, er,  _hey Aziraphale_.” Crowley spread his lips in a poor attempt at a smile. “What’re you doing back here?”

“I was  _looking for you,”_ Aziraphale said and frowned, leaning in to peer over Crowley’s shoulder. “What on earth are you - oh.”

Occupying an entire glossy page was a painting. Etched in shades of black, an angel stood. Head held high and sword, cruel and gleaming in hand, the angel watched, removed, as the weeping couple were expelled from Eden.

Crowley looked up, something like guilt crossing his expression as Aziraphale studied the art.

“Knew him, didn’t you? Doré.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured and knelt beside him, reaching out to run a finger over the cool page.

“Angel, there’s, uh,” Crowley said, starting slow, “a bit of a resemblance. In some of the others too.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighed, and said, “I suppose there is.”

Crowley’s look turned sharp, and if Aziraphale didn’t know any better - accusing.

“You didn’t?”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, incredulous, “Didn’t  _what_?”

“You know. Talk to him - about, er, angel stuff. About  _that day,”_ Crowley said, waving vaguely at the picture.

Aziraphale gaped at Crowley, shocked - and, if he was honest, more than a little hurt at the accusation.

“If you’re asking if I casually revealed my angelic nature to a random human and then told some good old angel stories for the fun of it, then the answer is  _no_ , Crowley.”

Aziraphale pressed on, distractedly tracing the image, “If you  _must_ know, while Gustave and I did discuss divinity and the immortal soul - it was purely scholarly in nature.  _Obviously_  if he knew anything about me as an angel he wouldn’t have painted me like-,” Aziraphale hesitated, frowning tightly as he looked upon the painted angel’s impassive face. “Well, I certainly hope he wouldn’t have painted me like that.”

There was a soft touch to his arm and Aziraphale drew his hand back from the page.

Crowley, looking distinctly uncomfortable, closed his eyes. Fingers tentatively brushing Aziraphale’s wrist, he cleared his throat and said, “I - I’m sorry angel. I shouldn’t have - I mean, forgive me. I let one of my own damn temptation tricks get the better of me.”

“Temptation tricks?” Aziraphale muttered.

“I don’t much like the taste of jealousy, angel. Prefer to inspire it in others.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale, said feeling lighter. “ _Oh._  You thought-” and here, he hesitated, thinking of all of Gustave’s drawings of half clothed angels.

Well. That certainly  _might_  give someone the wrong idea.

Crowley slapped the book closed. “You know what,  _doesn’t matter what I thought.”_

Aziraphale pulled it from his hands. “ _You_   _thought_  Gustave and I - you thought we were,” and here Aziraphale meaningfully raised his brows.

Crowley made a face. “Oh come on, what is that even supposed to-”

“ _You know_.”

“I absolutely do not-”

“You thought Gustave and I were in a sexual relationship!” Aziraphale crowed.

Crowley jerked back, upsetting another stack of books. “ _I did not think that_ ,” he yelped - then immediately frowned, “Wait,  _were you?”_

“ _Of course not_ , I just told you-” Aziraphale cut himself off with a waved hand. “ _Then what did you think we were?”_

Twisting his lips, Crowley shrugged and shook his head.

“Oh come on-”

“ _Nothing.”_

_“Crowley-”  
_

“Don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“Will you just-”

“No-”

“-  _please_  tell-”

“ _Ughh -_ I thought you were in  _love,_ alright?” 

The confession burst from Crowley, and going red _,_ he ducked his head to look down at the book in Aziraphale’s hands.

“I thought he loved you, and you loved him back. And so you’d told him about, well, everything.”

Aziraphale looked at him, uncomprehending. “ _No._ I did not love him. And  _Crowley_ , I’m pretty sure the only person in existence who knows  _even_  close to everything is-”

He stopped.

Crowley sat there, golden red hair ruffled and glasses dangling haphazardly from his collar - uncharacteristically exposed.

Looking at him, Aziraphale finished softly, “-you.”

With a bitter shake of his head, Crowley turned away. Facing the darkened space between shelves, he muttered. “Never been much good at sharing, angel.”

In Aziraphale’s stomach a complicated, giddy feeling brewed - as if he stood, peering down from atop a great height. Reaching for Crowley felt a lot like curling his toes over the edge.

A soft touch was all it took to turn Crowley’s head.

“ _Crowley.”_ He said his name like a question.

Crowley reached, fumbling for his glasses.

Aziraphale stopped him with another soft touch. This time, atop his shaking hand.

“You don’t need those. Not here,” Aziraphale said, then frowned. “Unless you do?”

He released his hand, unwilling to deny Crowley this comfort, however-much he desired to see the truth in his gaze.

Crowley’s hand brushed over the glasses, then dropped, limp in his lap.

With a deep sigh, he spoke. “He must have thought of you often, angel. The likeness is uncanny. But the thing is-” When he looked up, his face was open, vulnerable, excruciatingly expressive. “-the art falls so  _painfully_  short.”

“Oh,” was all Aziraphale managed.

Crowley swallowed. “It’s missed your smile, for a start.”

“Oh,” was his next inelegant reply.

“The color in your cheeks.”

“Oh.”

“The kindness in your eyes.”

“Oh.” Then, “ _Crowley.”_

“Angel?”

Aziraphale stared at him, wonder blossoming beneath his skin. “How long?”

“Far longer than Doré dared.”

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth, vainly seeking words that wouldn’t come. It was only when Crowley moved to rise that they leapt up, tripping over each other to rush out of Aziraphale’s stuttering mouth.

“You mean to say - that is,” he winced, and stepped off the ledge, “you’ve loved me through all the years I spent falling in love with  _you_?”

And Crowley was there -  _of course he was_ , catching him even before his stomach had finished it’s first flip.

Knees bumping Aziraphale’s, he knelt before him, hands cradling his face.

“Angel,” he whispered, bright gaze tracing Aziraphale’s face. “Were I an artist, I’d paint you better than he did. Better than any of the fools who thought they loved you.”

“Just exactly _how many_  artists do you think have-”

“Oh angel, more than you know,” Crowley said, and shook himself. “Doesn’t matter though.”

“And why’s that?” Aziraphale asked, looking from Crowley’s curving brows to his determinedly set lips.

“Because I -” he hesitated, then with a dip of his head, steeled himself. “I loved you before them, angel. And I’ll still be loving you, long after the last artist has used you as their muse. I’m yours, angel,” he said, and swallowed. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Angel. I do,” Crowley said. And between musty bookshelves, Crowley leaned in, and brushed a painfully tender kiss against his lips.

Aziraphale, feeling distinctly like they both might be falling in a wondrous, thrilling fashion, whispered against his lips, “I want you. Until time slows and stops. And then throughout whatever comes after.”

“There is no  _after_  time, angel.”

“If there is-”

“You’ll have me.”

“And when the lights go out in the universe?”

“You’ll still have me.”

“Well what about space,” Aziraphale said, smiling at this new game, “when the universe shrinks-”

Crowley silenced him with a kiss, then swore softly against his lips. “ _Always,_ angel. It took me six thousand bloody years to get to this point. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I guess we really have Gustave to thank for that - getting us here.”

Crowley groaned, and quieted him with another kiss.

“Don’t think-” Aziraphale said, laughing and gasping between kisses, “that you can - use this to shut - me up - whenever you want - now.”

“I can bloody well try,” Crowley said, and kissed him again.

Eventually Aziraphale pulled back, feeling glow-y and quite warm. “You know what? I think I’ll close the shop early today.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll miracle us up some cheese and crackers and a nice bottle of Chateau Mouton, and we can,” he stalled, looking at Crowley and thinking of all that was no longer forbidden, “start making up for lost time.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open.

“I’ll close the shop. You clean up those,” Aziraphale said, nodding to the toppled books.

He’d barely taken a step when the air cracked with twin snaps - followed immediately by a third.

He turned to see the aisle miraculously clear of books, and with a quick glance over his shoulder, confirmed that the “open” sign was now turned to “closed” and the doors were locked.

“Done and done,” Crowley said. Holding out an arm, he grinned positively  _devilishly,_ and said, “Shall we, angel? I’ve already miracled the wine.”

“Oh, if you insist,” Aziraphale said, and took his arm with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus:
> 
> “Wait,” Aziraphale said, “Earlier, you said ‘if I were an artist.’ Crowley, have you ever tried to draw me?”
> 
> “I mean, yeah? Maybe? One or twice,” Crowley shrugged.
> 
> Aziraphale is understandably shocked when, years later, he finally convinces Crowley to show him the art - and Crowley takes him to a goddamn warehouse.
> 
> \- - - -
> 
> You can find me on tumblr!
> 
> [goodomensblog](https://goodomensblog.tumblr.com/)  
> or  
> [just-quintessentially-me](https://just-quintessentially-me.tumblr.com/) (main)


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